


semi-chromatic labyrinth

by pumpkinfoxes (100xGrounder)



Series: Arcanum AU [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, F/M, Time Turner, and also hermione likes beer, and herbology, dumbledore will be in chapter 2, enjoy!!, just read it so i can stop tagging things omg, lots of time turning stuff going down in this fic, set in italy 1947, sort of a gay thing between abraxas and tom, there will probably be four chapters, there's a mishap with a cat, tom hates crookshanks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100xGrounder/pseuds/pumpkinfoxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels something when he looks at her. Something he can’t quite guess but the one and only thing that he can possibly identify this aching feeling with is something rather terrifying to him.</p><p>Yearning.</p><p>Yearning and also hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tom Riddle has always seen life in monochrome photographs.

It’s a dance between what is honorable and what’s immoral. A war between purity and sin, love and hate, phantasm and the utmost revolting normality.

Everything is black and white and nothing— _nothing_ —surpasses such logic.

That is, until he finds himself standing in the center of a butterfly garden in Italy, 1947 and gazing into the most mystifying set of lilac irises he’s ever encountered.

He’s startled at first. He’s never known so much as a tantalizing color—such beauty and horror in one glance. Everything has always been either this or that but never _this kind of that_ , this … This magically bedeviling, purpley kind of pink that is almost rather … _pretty_ , he guesses.

“Your eyes,” is all he says, disjointed and quite completely enamored. They not only cling to every palette of purple fervidness he’s ever known, but there are—he can’t quite put his finger on it—there are little periwinkle flecks, he supposes, floating over the lilac like it’s a sea _meant_ to be wandered.

It’s color—a fair, eloquent color completely lost in a black and white void. It’s like a sip of whiskey after three bottles of sickly sweet rum.

She doesn’t hear his words, of course. He’s hidden behind a willow tree, clinging to yet another textbook on Dark Arts … He’s watching this girl place seeds into tiny hand-painted pots and hum Chopin to herself and for merlin’s sake, why has he been gazing at her for twenty fucking minutes?

✗✗✗

It's summer. Three fifteen in the afternoon. Tom is playing with a cat he discovers roaming the Italian streets. It purrs and leans it’s forehead into the palm of his hand, sweetly swinging it’s tail as he pets his light, sandy fur.

The boulevard is seamed with infinitely tall and absolutely breath-stealingly beautiful architecture, moss-encased fountains and not even three but _four_ gelato shops. The air smells strongly of rosemary and fire wood yet the clouds above him are still just ghosts of dull gray as usual. This cat is doing quite a fine job of distracting him. It’s fur, he notices, is a peculiar shade of tangerine orange. The sorrel color dances across it’s back and slumbers softly on it’s face, adding all the more rarity and excitation to his experience in Italy.

He loves this: muggles walk past him and can never truly gather who he is; what he can do. No one knows here. And that’s the beauty of it. He can hide in plain sight, in the midst of his enemies, practicing—plotting—and no one will ever know. Even his most intimate friends don’t know he’s here; they’re aware he’s been out traveling for the past few months but being off the grid has truly been wonderful.

“Trying to steal my cat, I suppose?” A peremptory, British accent fills his ears. His entire body steels as his fingers linger above the kitten’s fur. The girl kneels down to retrieve her feline, strands of her arborescent auburn hair brush past his face and it becomes clear. 

 

_Lilac._

Two lilac eyes staring at him. It’s _her_. It’s the flower girl.

He gulps and stands as does the girl who is now holding a cat in her arms and giving him a rather cold glare. The french cuffs on his sleek black button-up shirt make his wrists itch, his mouth is too dry so no words come out and God, could her eyes be any more of a distraction to him then they are now? He can’t think—his mind, his thoughts, his senses have all been numbed by the sheer revelry of the bright luminescence burning in her irises and she’s talking to him—to him. It makes the rest of the world seem out of focus, somehow.

She’s a muggle. He shouldn’t feel so attracted to her. A teenage girl from Italy, knowing absolutely nothing of the magical world hidden behind her back. She isn’t like his people—his people who all say muggles are so _fun_. Muggles are toys to them, they use, play and cheat them all for amusement. He should _not_ feel so entranced, so tempted—bloody hexed—in her presence.

But this lilac: It belongs to a garden fairy. He should be singing to her, adoring her, conjuring up great spells to ease her hard-working hands. He should be writing poetry about her fox brown hair and the dimples on her cheeks and her smile oh, her honey-like smile when she’s around the songbirds and the roses; it’s as if she’s never seen such sweet herbage in her life.

“I wasn’t trying to steal—”

“Oh, Crookshanks! I’ve been searching everywhere.” She glares up at him. “I promise you, if you hurt him in any way, shape or form, I can do nine hundred times as worse to you.” He raises his eyebrows at the sheer whimsical irony of this.

“I believe I was protecting him, actually.” He argues. “Lots of crazy people out there, you know … ”

“I’m completely aware of how it is _out there_ , thank you very much. Would you like to tell me what it is you planned on doing with him after you were finished— _protecting_ —him?”

“Oh, returning him to the local flower shop, of course.” He smirks critically. How was he supposed to know that this one sodding cat—out of all the cats in Europe—belonged to her?

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you were.” She narrows her eyes at him. He hums. “Hold on,” She has a strange sort of look on her face. Tom’s wrist begin to itch again. “How do you know I work at the flower shop?” She says it much too quietly for him to here but he already knows what she’s said.

_Her flowers are practically famous in his group of friends? A family member told him of her? He buys flowers all the time and of course her face looks familiar to him?_

There wasn’t a single excuse he could think of. The truth? Hell no. But what really was the truth? Why does he notice her in such a way? In such a way that is actually making him—Lord fucking Voldemort—nervous to be around someone.

For eighteen years his eyes have only ever seen black and white until she came along and now he’s seeing lilac and orange and pale green and an abundance of other color so diverse they could fill up the entire cosmos and still be spilling out over the edges. And now here she is, he _“stole”_ her cat and she’s also apparently mad about it for God knows what reason.

“What I’d like to know is how I’ve somehow found the …” He pauses, attempting to change the subject. “… delight—of meeting a fellow Brit here in the heart of Italy.”

This question seems to throw her off and it takes her a while to answer.

“I’m here studying plants.” Her eyes descend to the cobblestone beneath them, he sees her fingers gripping the poor cat’s fur as if she were being questioned for a crime. “And you? Why’re you here?”

“The coffee in Luxembourg was too bitter for me.”

“Right, so you’ve been to Luxembourg, too? How about Russia? Spain? A guy like you must’ve been to Argentina, right?” Her voice toys with different tones of sarcasm and seriousness as she continues to play along with him.

“Yes, there are guys like me just _jam-packed_ in the streets of Argentina right now, as we speak.”

“You mean cat-napers like you.”

“Right, yes, that’s us. I’m actually part of a large group of world renown kitten snatchers, you’d be our first victim: we’re still in the starting process, going through experiments and such … ”

“‘I’m so honored.” She smiles—yet her hands are still trembling as they speak. What makes her so fearful, he wonders.

“Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you a drink.” He suggests quickly and let’s face it, pretty smoothly. “It doesn’t have to be alcohol. Whatever you like, coffee, tea, um … Lemonade?”

“Beer. And afterwards you can apologize to Crookshanks.”

The cat makes a sort of meowing noise that should’ve belonged to a mountain lion. It possesses the image of a furrier, more rabid adaptation of an Egyptian sphinx, the thought burdens over Tom like a thousand red bricks and he finds himself suddenly plotting against the pitiful creature.

“A-Alright.” He agrees, though saying it through his teeth.

✗✗✗

The garden fairy—Hermione is her name, he discovers—guzzles three beers like massive shots of vodka, each gives her more motivation to finish another. She’s silent as the barkeep continues pouring her fifth glass before she’s even done with the fourth.

“You like beer?”

She hums in a sort of way that tells him she isn’t sure yet.

“I see.” He bites his fingernails as an old folk song plays through the cheap pub speakers. “Hermione,” He says practically dancing with the mellifluous syllables of her name. “You say you like plants. Have you ever thought about herbalism?” He’s quiet, waiting for something. He wants to talk about flowers and charms and magic with her—But no. He can’t talk to her about this. “More specifically—er— _magical_ plants?” He stares at the dark wood of the bar counter and pretends this is a random subject he’s just brought up.

He feels the need—the enticement—to share with her all his burdens. Such a magical, bedeviling woman can’t be a muggle. She must know, she must know. He continues to repeat this in his head.

She doesn’t answer his question, though. She orders him another drink instead.

“Do you believe in those kind of things? Like children’s magic stories?” He defines.

She twirls blonde highlights through her fingers like vines. Her eyes burn into his, her tongue darts out of her mouth to moisten her lips—a soft pink, like the transparent memory of a rose petal.

“Do you?” She returns.

“No.” He states solidly and repeats his question to her.

“No.” She answers coolly, repeating his lie.

He nonchalantly hums, ever so silently, along to the music and watches her fingers graze her collarbones. She’s staring outside an open sliver of the bar window’s blinds. Tom notices it’s almost dark out.

“You never told me your name.” Hermione says, turning to him. He smirks—a sheepish yet devilish sort of grin that actually comes out of no where.

This girl—could this be something? Could this one sentence of a girl mean anything to the large chronicle that is his harrowing life? He feels something when he looks at her. Something he can’t quite guess but the one and only thing that he can possibly identify this aching feeling with is something rather terrifying to him.

Yearning.

Yearning and also hope.

“Tom.” He states and for the first time an actual laugh comes out of his mouth, out of the abyss and thrown into a state of desire and real content with how things are. “My name is Tom Riddle.”

There is fear in her eyes, actual fear only someone who knew him could express.

And suddenly he feels this very fear incinerating a hollow cavity amidst his hope like fire melting plastic. His sanity is slowly crumbling onto it’s rocky foundation and he’s seething with doubt, seething with regret, seething with anger. She knows him.

 

That look is something only a witch could give him. He knows it all too well.


	2. chapter ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His thoughts are a library of disturbance, dark hatched lines repeating over his mind like cognitive threats to his broken soul. _How much longer, _he contemplates, _how much longer do I have to run? _____

“Tom, put the cat down, please. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Who are you?”

“Please, Tom,” she insists. Her hands are shaking and her cheeks have turned a kind of blotchy pinky-red. Fear is painted onto every molecule of her being.

She’s a witch.

“How did you find me?”

“I’m not whoever you think I am. I’m just the flower girl.” Her eyes are glassy; lips, quivering and breath short. “Just leave him alone, I’m begging you.” She’s holding her arms out waiting for him to place the creature back into her possession.

The two are outside, standing in the way of the pub doors. They are veiled in the darkness of the night, the only visible light being poured upon them from the streetlamps above.

“I swear to God, you tell me what your real name is or I’ll ring his neck.” _Your anger is showing, _he reminds himself, _your weakness is showing. _____

____“M-my is Hermione,” she yells quickly. “I work at the floral shop, I’m British but I’m here studying plants and that’s my cat. Nothing I’ve told you is a lie!”_ _ _ _

____Tom, knowing how the truth finds it’s way out and also knowing how lies are constructed, transfigures the cat into a single white carnation._ _ _ _

____“Well, then, here, Hermione.” He holds it by the petals, not caring to be delicate with it as he shoves his hand out toward her and gestures for her to take it. “Study this.”_ _ _ _

____Her mouth falls open, just slightly. Just so he can see the faint image of her teeth and her tongue and the shadow of the night that coats her face, saturated in shock; lament._ _ _ _

____“Crookshanks.” She whispers almost like a bid farewell; the word comes out like a question, like a sob for mercy, like glass shattering. Then something darkly familiar to Tom clicks inside the machinery of her persona._ _ _ _

____Her face is cherry-red, she’s taller too and her irises have turned to pitch. _She’s a volcano about to erupt, _he thinks to himself.___ _ _ _

_______Shit. ____ _ _ _ _ _

________“You think I can’t reverse a stupid spell? I learned this in first year! You—You’re a pathetic … miserable doormat! Are you afraid of a bloody cat for merlin’s sake? Are you afraid of magic?” The blue-ish veins in his knuckles pop out like tree trunks and his brows rut into a V-shape. “Are you afraid of me?” She taunts him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Me? Afraid of you? Quite unlikely, love,” and he’s trying so hard, so very hard not to hex her into a thousand tiny specks of purple powder. He’s trying to control himself. He’s trying not to kill that damned barkeeper who’s eyes keep shifting from their conversation to the off-white plastic telephone on the wall. He’s trying not to lose himself all the while losing his very will to even do that one simple task._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“No, I’m not afraid of a little girl like you,” he says, practically foaming with malice. “Doubtful that you even know the very simplicities of herbology from the looks of it, you’re just a vile little—_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________” _Bombarda! _“ Hermione cries with great fury, pointing her wand at his old and tattered Dark Arts textbook. He grunts, looking down at his empty hands charred with black embers. _That was the first book he’d ever owned. The first thing he’d ever cared about. _______ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He’s going to _bombarda _her into the next century.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________But when he looks up from his hands, she’s no where to be found. Gone. Disappeared. Even the sodding flower-cat-savage has fucking disappeared with her. No doubt she’s going publish his whereabouts now, there’s no escaping. They’ll have him killed if anyone hears of his plan._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________Does she know? How long has she been spying on me? Who else is working against me? _His thoughts are a library of disturbance, dark hatched lines repeating over his mind like cognitive threats to his broken soul. _How much longer, _he contemplates, _how much longer do I have to run? ________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________He knows of only one person he can truly trust with his situation._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Why, though, does stupid Malfoy have to live in fucking Prague? It’d take nearly two hours to fly there and Tom is unfortunately without a broomstick. The bus—a glorified shopping cart full of muggles, old haphazardly scattered newspapers, sticky leather seats stained with cheap alcohol and tar-colored shoe cleaner, a driver who opts for only bollywood music and a perpetual abhorrent odor that smells like a mix of tobacco and dirty rosewater—would have to suffice this time._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________✗✗✗_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________When Abraxas had told Tom he wanted to take a break from the world and "discover life’s golden luxuries” as he called it, he expected him to be lounging around pools all day, surrounded by bowls of guacamole and chips and tequila galore._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________He expected to see a three story gothic-style mansion when he arrived replete with Hans Wigner furniture, country house kitchenware, artwork lining every wall and baseboard of the house, silver platters filled with fruit and coffee and buttered bread sticks, chefs and butlers smothering him as he spent his glorious vacation finding the so-called _golden luxuries _of this high-class fairytale life.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________What he did not expect was his old classmate Avery to answer the door, completely punch-drunk and holding a tongue piercing clamp between his fingertips, wearing an overly confident grin and fluffy gray slippers._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“Tommy? Is that you?” he says, covering his mouth as if shocked. “Oh boy, ‘braxas, it’s Tom Riddle! C’mon in, old buddy, haven’t seen you in months.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“Two years, actually,” he says, flinching when Avery slaps his hand on his back, welcoming him inside._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Abraxas steps out of what Tom assumes is the living room, face droopy and eyes slaphappy with what smells like vodka he bought off the street. He tows behind him a bloody-mouthed Mulciber._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“Riddle!” He cries with glee. “Man, you got here just in time! We’re piercing Mulciber’s tongue!” Dolohov steps in with a girl Tom doesn’t recognize tugging at his sleeve. The room is light, too many open curtains, the walls are all painted an ugly color of vermillion that makes him want to puke. Chipped wood, creaky floors, an old, ripped, sage green couch, abandoned to the corner of the room—probably vermin living inside._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________It’s hot and the air feels ten pounds heavier than it should be._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“When did you get here, old mate? Thought you were in Fiji or some shit … ” Dolohov whispers like no one else in the room knew of this secret._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Cygnus Black staggers in with a pool noodle in one hand and a Capri Sun juice pouch in the other and why the fuck is he wearing Ugg boots in July, Tom wonders.“ _Dude, _no way!” His British accent has somehow turned Californian since the last time they spoke. “We’re piercing Avery’s tongue next, d’you want one, it’ll be so quick and eas—___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________"Would you all just shut up?!” He shouts over the muffled noise of the crowd of boys. Everyone goes quiet, awkwardly and at different times ending with a dying woohoo coming from Mulciber who had been watching some muggle sports game on the television hanging above them. “How many of you are here anyway?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Abraxas closes his mouth, unsure what to say. He ties his long bleach blonde hair into a messy bun that makes Tom wants to braid it again like how he used to back when they shared a room in Hogwarts._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“How come all of you are having some sort of frat boy party in Prague meanwhile I’ve been having one of the worst days of my life!” He shouts through the silence._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Abraxas lets go of Mulciber’s arm, rests the piercing needle on the table beside them and strides over to him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________“Hey,” he says, tone serious. “Why are you really here? What’s happened?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________And there’s this _look. _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________This sort of _almost-about-to-cry _look in Tom’s eyes, this _i-hate-my-life-when-will-this-end _sort of stare._____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Abraxas knows this look all too well. He saw it when he first met Tom, a frightened and skinny orphan knowing nothing of Hogwarts, nothing of magic, nothing of who Dumbledore was or what he stood for._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Abraxas was a plain and simple boy, yet still being radiant with beauty and a king-like way of walking and talking almost like he was royalty. Tom immediately chose him to befriend, they would be roommates, classmates, partners in crime, the two everyone feared. Abraxas was someone to look up to—someone to impress._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Now._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Now here Tom is once again, looking for help, a home to run back to when things got too tough. It was fucking embarrassing, yeah. But Abraxas was never one to rub something like that in a friend’s face._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________His fingers are shaking, he’s biting his lip, his hair is moist from it being fucking eighty degrees out even though Tom Marvolo Riddle never sweats. Never._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“They _know. _” He mumbles, angrily. “Dumbledore sent her, I know it.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________“What? Who? Who knows? Who did Dumbledore send?” Abraxas replies in a near panicky _trying-to-be-calm _manner. “Why?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________“I don’t know. But they’re after me, the Ministry, they want me dead, of course. And that girl. That bitch … ” His fists turn into balls of shuddering hysteria at the mere memory of her face. _Her eyes. _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________“What girl?” Avery interrupts although he’s only heard small fragments of their conversation._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________“You met a girl?” Another voice says with disbelief._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________“Was she pretty? Was she a pureblood?” Someone else says._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________“I didn’t know!” It bursts out of him like a hurricane, a thunderstorm, lightning flashes behind his closed eyes. “I had no idea, I just assumed she was a muggle for merlin’s sake—_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________There’s a brassy voice shouting from behind the door of another room. Loud, vulgar, barbaric._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________"How’d you get in here!” The man yells as if he were trying to provoke a sleeping bear._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________“The front door.” Another voice answers, gentler yet still a little too dictatorial._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________“ _For the love of God would someone please tell me how many of you are here? _” Tom says, exasperated and rather tired from the long bus trip.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________“It’s Lestrange.” Mulciber speaks up over his swelling tongue._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________“Is that the new girl with him?” Cygnus asks to no one in particular._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________“Lestrange is here?” Tom narrows his eyes and grits his teeth, he had never really liked him back when they went to school together. The kid was too mysterious—no that’s not the word, vague was more like it—he kept secrets, never showed up to class on time, curfew meant nothing to him. Tom would stay up for hours waiting to see if he’d ever go to bed or even merely just enter the common room, that was all he wanted, but no. Stupid drama queen can’t-catch-me-I’m-the-gingerbread-man Lestrange always had to draw attention to himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________________He had to be the _bad boy _, the one everyone always wondered about. The one girls fought over who would be his date to the Yule Ball, the one who heard of Tom’s interest in horcruxes and decided it would be a race. To see who could split there soul the fastest, the most horcruxes, the longest life. It was always a competition with him.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________And quite frankly, Tom is enjoying the thought of killing him on instant if it weren’t for one dauntingly nightmarish thought that rushes to his mind all too quickly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“Wait.” He says, moving his hand to the general area of the room he is speaking to. “What did you just say?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“Hmm?” Cygnus hums, oblivious._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“You said something. About a new girl.” He clarifies. “What new girl?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“Oh yeah, she’s amazing!” Dolohov interrupts. “She knows all about Prague and muggle sports and how to do a backstroke.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“Excuse me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“We were swimming. Before you got here.” He gives a bashful smile but it disappears quickly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“Her name.” He demands, eyebrows furrowing together, heart pronouncedly beating against his chestbone for fear of never escaping death’s teasing grin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________“Hermione,” he says as though he’s just met a Victoria’s Secret model._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. _I just got rid of her, _he thinks to himself.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________________What’s even worse is the fact that Tom’s high school archenemy is in the coat closet all alone with this beautiful Italian girl yelling like he wants to stuff her body in a blender and watch her get pulverized. He’s shouting something—no one can quite make out what he’s saying though. Their voices are muffled by woolen coats, hockey skates, leather boots and god knows what else these boys have in there._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________________Of course, after all the yelling back and forth—it seems Lestrange _knows _she’s working against them—a curse is thrown at the door and then again at the far side of the room. Once more at the floor.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________________Hermione shoves open the heavy wood door and runs for the exit, random spells bounce off the walls behind her. Her face is covered in scratches and bruises and small but deep signs of being hurt. Hurt is one very obvious word he sees when he looks at her. Although another might be strength._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________________She runs into the doorway where Tom is standing shocked and almost completely removed from all of reality. His mind snaps back like a rubber band just as she bumps into him. Her eyes, staring right back at him, are filled with blueberry-colored clouds and a sort of dizziness that assures him she’s been drugged._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________________Color surrounds her existence._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________________Lestrange grabs her arm unmindful of Tom and shoves her into a wall. No one is stopping him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________________________“Hey!” He shouts to the boys. “Who wants to see me kill her, yea?” He laughs, hiccuping as he grips his wand tighter and tighter. His fingers shake with excitement and the whole room is silent, dumbfounded. _They fear him, _Tom realizes, _he’s their new leader. _______ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________________And suddenly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________________________Suddenly Tom feels like punching him in the face. He feels like kicking him. He feels like cursing him. He feels like killing him and throwing his body in a freezer to waste away like old chicken bones. He feels like saving his— _his _—flower girl, witch or not, just to spite him.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________________________But to sum it all up, he doesn’t do any of these things. No, he doesn’t even punch him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________________________________Hermione does._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
